I Could Die of Wanting You
by paramourconspiracy
Summary: One look or touch from him and suddenly I don’t even exist as an individual. I’m his and anything he could possibly want of me. I’d do–be anything. Never in my right mind or otherwise would I risk losing him. I would simply die. I’ll do anything." S/N


_I could die of wanting you._

* * *

"Naruto, pick it _up!_"

My jaw clenches. _Shut the fuck up already you pathetic excuse for a human being!_ These photographers are all the fucking same. One after the other comes in, strutting through the crowd with their heads held high and their freshly redone noses marking its beautiful territory like they're the _shit_. Like if I don't change, I might just make them look bad. Or worse. Be blacklisted from modeling.

Well, let me tell you something, _fuckfaces_ who don't know the first thing about faces people actually want to _fuck_–

"That's nice, that's perfect. _Thank_ _yew_ for finally trying, _gorgeousss_." Did he have snake syndrome? Because the pathetic British accent and . . . what is that, part Dutch? Are you trying to be completely obnoxious and Jack Sparrow-drunk for the sake of my career or to simply wash it down the drain and save yourself from the media by complaining of my bi-polar disorder, or my anger problem (that I just _hahhhvant_ gotten _ova_ even _afta_ three _yeas_ of _therapae_)? Because for God's sake, the only crime being committed here is your sorry attempt at sounding like the Hairapy guy for SunSilk Shampoo.

He sighs, visualizing irritation. (His botox doesn't quite allow it.)

His camera drops to his side from his two wanly, shriveled up hands. Try yourself a hand lotion shoot next time.

"_Honestly_, am I workang alone _heah_ _peopoh?_ Pick it _up!"_

Really, I'm not trying to be a diva. I just hate the ignoramuses in this industry. I'm like a sack of fucking meat people (mainly the giggly girls) can chew on and adjust to their liking with steak sauce or . . . I don't know, what else do you carnivores put on your meat? Sadly, I'm a vegetarian by birth. You may blame my mother in later discussions.

The Hairapy Guy shoots me for a few after that. He seems to be getting comfortable with the set and my style. I'm thrilled _foh_ _yew_ _dahling_, really.

I sigh, falling back into my usual mourn that life has fucked me over and I am doomed to forever look like a stupid, pretty blond on a less pretty cover that makes me look a bit less stupid, despite what might be on the cover around me. Or anywhere else in the magazine. I wonder if they'd let me join that new television show "America's Most Smartest Models". It'd finally be something I win where I'm not only getting praised for my downright edible ass.

And yes, believe it or not, I'm actually quite modest. If I think someone is falsely accusing me of being more gorgeous than Paris Hilton, then I immediately let them know how many times she changed herself to look half as good as I am.

I'm kidding. Trust me, I'm probably the least stuck up model you will ever meet. (Not that Paris Hilton's a model. Oh, God, help the world.) I'm about as brunette as blonds go. I'm smart enough and I have a knack at figuring things (and people) out. I'd be a brain surgeon if I wasn't stuck in this crap.

But I'll be fair; I enjoy it most of the time. I like to model. I like to think that I'm on those polished covers in a dentist's office or a perverted, unjust lawyer's office being seen by the kids (or young adults, if you knew the magazines I've covered) who want to look as good as they think I am, and aspire to be like me, or look like me. It's like being a parent (in theory). Those are the moments that make you think the 9 months of hard labor (and as many years as you decided to keep on laboring) are worth while.

P.s., I seriously hope you're within your parents' reach if you're at that perverted, unjust lawyer's office. They can be as dangerous as cherry pie on an early country morning.

Now, I'm sitting at the side of the shoot, one of my magazines (well not mine, but they very well could be, I'm on and in them so frequently) residing in my lap. I'm gnawing on a carrot. Oh scrumptious orange vegetable, I adore you so. The ovolactovegetarian just pools out of me. Can you feel the love?

Pause for a sec. Remember those moments that make all the suffering seem just about sufferable?

"Yo, Sasuke's here!"

This one is what makes all the pain go away.

The delicious carrot and the . . . magazine (I _told_ you I'm modest! I could have said the magazine was delicious, but I am far too uncomfortable with myself to even think of mentioning it) falls between my toned legs and onto the floor.

My eyes glitter excitedly. It just doesn't get any better than him. He's twice as good-looking, triply famous, and fucking quinted as rich. But in an _old money_ sort of way. He hasn't worked a day in his life, like we lowly people must do to make as much as he has in about 5 years. Oh, don't be mistaken, that's only what he has in the bank right now. They put a little bit in (which would approximately be how much I make in two months) every 3 to 4 weeks. He helped me first get into the business when I wasn't known even remotely to the planet (or the press, but what's the difference?). He's given me everything I could ever ask for. He _is _everything.

"Sasuke!" I yell and wrap my arms around the sex-on-legs. He's just _perfect_. I can barely contain myself.

"Naruto," he greets distantly. Don't you dare give me cold looks now, jackass. Not this morning. I glare my annoyance and crash my lips against his pale, permanently moist ones. He takes a moment, but assertively kisses back. We make out for a long minute. Half the population is probably YouTube-ing us right this second. I don't care how modest you think I should be, but yes, we're that hot. Especially as a couple.

I pull away panting and wipe the bangs from my sticky, rightly-sized forehead. "Good morning," I say airily, pretending to be just as uninterested as him before our show of PDA. I let go of my death grip in his inhumanely-stunning dark, _dark_ brunette hair and turn away. I shake my refined hips right out the door, giving him something to look at while he broods. I call a lazy goodbye to my manager as I exit center stage.

You could say, in layman's terms, that we're in the marriage stage of our relationship–real commitment for life. I'm pretty sure Sasuke's parents just think I'm a vagabond whore out for his money, but whatever. They don't matter. And neither does the actual concept of a wedding. Do you really need a ceremony to claim that you're permanently, ball-and-chain committed to someone? I mean, we've been together for at least 3 years now, and we've known each other since I first walked the streets of Manhattan at age 11 . . . (My father actually ran over his dog. It was such a cute dog I insisted for days after that I be able to check in on him . . . Okay, not the truth. I really wanted a dog at the time and I thought if he started to trust me he'd let me walk the dog and . . . you know, borrow it or whatever. I was a confused, challenged child. But, luckily, Sasuke liked that about me. And so I started to stalk him for more than his dog.)

Despite the fact that gay marriage still isn't legal in this state, we wouldn't be able to pull it off anyway. I'm only turning seventeen in October (the 10th), which is in about 2 or 3 weeks. And Sasuke's parents signing the papers? I highly doubt it. Probably because of the vagabond whore thing, but who knows. Maybe they only like gays with butt loads of cash . . . that comes from their families. I have a comfortable income myself, but I couldn't make what they have in this lifetime combined with the next. Makes you wonder what they do with all of it.

"What's your problem?" he asks as he falls into step with me on the chilling NYC sidewalk and wraps his arm around my waist, turning me to face him.

I sigh and dip my head into his neck. He smells like home and vanilla.

"It's seven in the morning and you're asking me what's wrong with me?" I drone. I have frustratingly early photo shoots sometimes.

"More wrong then normal. You kissed me like we haven't had sex in days. It usually means you're upset about something."

I glance up at his face, pursing my lips together like I'm pissed. I'm not. Just uncontrollably moody. I'm about to retort, but quickly realize I don't really have the energy to think of one. I'm so damn tired. ". . . I love you," I opt for instead, sighing again. I close my eyes, tighten my hold around his neck, and breathe in my only comfort.

This is about as romantic as romance comes. Yes, be jealous.

He rips me from my Paradise City and grips my chin to get me to focus. I groan. I don't want to talk about it. Fuck everyone in this stupid world except the heavenly being in front of me.

I think he read my mind. He slithers his body closely, snakelike, around mine, burying his face into the tightly-tendoned crook of my neck. I sigh as his entire warmth envelops me and carries me back to my happy place (him). What else do I need but this?

"We have to go to school."

Way to ruin the mood, beautiful.

Ugh! Where's my dip-of-the-body, meaningful, passionate kiss that'll make all the cabbies and bystanders jealous (or dryheave, depending on the receptor)? What's life without an old movie to go with it?

I place my cookie-cutter-perfect hands at the sides of his neck and pull his head from my shoulder. He looks me in the eyes before I kiss him warmly, no tongue included. I like tongue, especially his, but sometimes you just need the calming feel of your lover's lips sensually against your own. It's another feeling that only resides in my happy place (him).

We break apart and just take in each other's faces, like they were the most magnificent pieces of artwork out there. Which they just might be.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he whispers, closing his even-more-perfect hands around mine and planting his soft, flawless forehead against my tanner one. He's unnaturally pale, despite the reality that I have him out in the sun with me almost every waking minute. I like the sun. It's inspirational. But I like his pale skin more, because it's even more inspirational, so I let him hide in the shadows like the irresistible vampire he is.

Our eyes are closed as we converse about something I really am too tired to talk about. It's easier to convince without the eye contact. "It's nothing, seriously. I just don't feel like going to school, like every other teenager in the universe." I flash a smile, trying to wane his concern. Somehow I know he knows I'm smiling at him. "I have you there though, so it's okay. Don't worry about me too much; your perfectly-crafted forehead will get wrinkles," I tease.

No married could be this in love, you're probably thinking. And that's why legality is so unimportant, because it rips people like us apart; because we are so achingly head-over-a-pair-of-Louboutin-heals for each other. And when you're with that someone who just makes the entire world go away until there's nothing left but the overflowing warmth in your heart, that pretentious pair of 3" heals just won't seem as dire-needed anymore.

It doesn't get any better than this, my friends.

"I have to worry about you. I love you," the connection met as I follow his eyes in opening. "And if you keep coming out of that building like this, I'm firing every one of their asses."

This is his building. Well, not exactly his, but his family's. Their second one. They have another on the Upper West Side. That one's the main building. Not only does it deal with all business transactions concerning this building, but it's also a record company. Uchiha Records and Modeling Agency. Sort of rolls off the tongue . . . Although I agree with your current thoughts that the agencies don't associate with each other at all. But if you know money as personally as I do, you'll understand the feeling of never having enough. So why not two big-time, unrelated agencies?

I laugh freely and put my hands on his. "Sasuke, relax. It's cool. You know I love to model. I'm just tired, that's all. Really . . . And no firing. I don't want to be hated as much as models should be." I smile at him, my cheekbones lifting in an assuring gesture.

He hesitates but nods, and then kisses me once more. "Come." He pulls me into the town car for our exciting departure towards the Upper East Side's unisex, presumptuous, Clay Frick Private School. It's among some of the more respected unisex high schools. Probably the only one that was nationally ranked, aside the single-sex schools. Sasuke's father gives money to the school for all intensive purposes as if they're stark-broke. They'll probably approach Sasuke asking if he wants their 'word in' for universities. I'm not sure why he wasn't just sent to an all-boys private school . . . Maybe his dad was hoping Sasuke would dump me for a girl. Rich as rich people are, they seriously are dumb as stumps. I easily outrank the skanks of Manhattan.

Clay Frick Private was named after Henry Clay Frick: simply the rich dude who knew that penthouses and townhouses sounded a lot better for a neat-looking (disgusting) place like Manhattan than the cozy homes on Long Island. Why live in suburbia when you can be among the classy and snobby?

We were about to pull up to the front of Clay Frick. It wasn't a surprise Sasuke and I made out the whole way here. Sometimes we skip first period to have enough time in the limo to have sex while we ride around Central Park.

Our drivers deserve far better than what they're being paid. I've had quite a number of them quit on me for the shit I put them through. And if you're looking for a job and you're a homophobe, _don't come looking._ You won't be a happy hetero.

As Clay Frick shadows over Sasuke's fancy Rolls Royce, we break apart. As my eyes remain closed, my lips follow his for more. No such luck. "You're going to first period today. I can't be responsible for another one of your absences." I know that must sound cold, but with the smirk I imagine is on his face . . . it's damn sexy. To my ears, all I hear him saying is, "I want to fuck you. I want to lick you everywhere. Bend. Over. _Now."_ . . . I would bend 180° if you'd just fuck me right now, Sasuke.

Shit, I am _such_ a slut for him.

I breathe out and let my eyes open and wander out the window. Students are filtering into the school doors and hanging about the steps outside.

Okay, I know I'm famous and terribly wanted, and Sasuke . . . well, there are no words to do justice to his perfection, but . . . But.

I really fucking hate people. I hate people. I fucking hate people.

Contrary to popular belief, I do not enjoy gallivanting around the Upper East Side with my Limited Edition Trovata aviators and some snug 501s trying to make my walk look like I own the world and everyone is below me. (I only like to walk around wearing my 501s and Trovata aviators with Sasuke. He is the ultimate accessory and really makes me look like I belong. He could make the Ugly Duckling popular.)

You'd figure being a renowned model gives me the advantage of having everybody just immediately love me . . . But you're wrong. They may make it seem that way, but they all hate me. Everybody hates me. And I know that sounds ridiculously paranoid, but I know people and how they think. They smile wide and say, "Oh my _God_, I love you _so_ much! I have _tons_ of posters of you on my wall! Please give me an autograph!" But what they really want to say is, "You think you're so great, don't you? Because you're good-looking? You think you're better than me because you're on a magazine cover and I'm not? Guess what, you're trash."

That isn't just my opinion.

Modeling is just a way out of dealing with people for me. Because the more I'm at those photo shoots, the less I'm facing reality. I'm completely in allegiance with social phobia. I would throw a benefit for it if it didn't involve being in a crowd for long periods of time.

I know you're thinking how dumb that is, but it just is. I don't know how to act around people. That's why I model. Because my face is on that cover, and everybody wants to be me, and instead of being a normal teenager and probably on the verge of suicide at this point, I get to be hated for my looks, not for my personality. No one gets to know me besides what's in those sleek pages, false information or not.

Except Sasuke, which I'm sure you've already guessed.

But I've always trusted him. I trust him with my very life. It's just the security that he'd never betray me or let me down. How many chances in life do you get with a person like that, all wrapped into the most beautiful package ever lain upon this green, self-centered Earth? I never thought I'd be so lucky. But I am. And he's all I need. Nothing–_no one_–else matters.

Despite my people phobia, I deal. And I've gotten better. I've made friends. I'm actually a very outgoing (outlandish) person if I can get comfortable around you . . . There's just very few I believe I can really trust. You have to prove to me that you won't backstab me at the first possibility of gaining something in my fall. And let me tell you, most really couldn't give enough of a shit to bother. Why should you? I'm honestly not all that interesting once you get past the fame and looks.

Like I tried to convince you before, the modesty is actually quite overwhelming.

I'm not like other models; I absolutely hate myself. Well, okay, I'm sure there are plenty models who hate themselves, so we have that in common.

"Naruto."

My body jolts. I forgot he's with me. A first, I assure you.

I turn to him slowly, feeling a slight wave of nausea wash over me as I try to, for once, stop thinking and over-thinking. "Sorry?"

Sasuke looks deep into my eyes and the nausea is immediately replaced with a fluttery stomach and a fuzzy head. His control over me is terrifyingly wonderful. One look or touch from him and suddenly I don't even exist as an individual. I'm his and anything he could possibly want of me. I'd do–_be _anything. Never in my right mind or otherwise would I risk losing him. I would simply die.

"Maybe I was right. You don't seem right today."

I'm not sure why I'm so strikingly moody today, but, just as fast as it came, the loving feeling falls away, leaving irrational resentment. I snap, "And you seem perfect, as usual. Why don't you just go on and be perfect without me today? I'd rather be _not right_ at home."

He doesn't even flinch. My heart pumps faster as I think of something else cutting to say. He's just so _together . . ._ Shit, give me some of that confidence. I would kill for an eighth of his self-assurance.

His hard gaze softens my core. He always looks right through my bastard attitudes.

My body jumps as his hand cups my cheek. I try to relax but I'm it seems impossible. I feel totally tweaked today. I'm sure my fist will soon go through the window.

There _must_ be a name for my psycho outsider turrets syndrome.

"Sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me today," I apologize, looking down. The guilt is crushing. He deserves so much better. The world and all its inhabitants aren't nearly enough.

I pick at my embarrassingly manicured nails as I feel his eyes searching my face. It's not usually so awkward between us. It's always so easy to be open and comfortable with him. He accepts me and loves me unconditionally. You will truly never be as lucky as me, simply because I claimed him first. And even if you do deserve him more than I do, you have no chance. I will calmly rip off your penis/boobs and sell them to the highest bidder. I hope they're big, or it'll be a pointless effort and I'm sure you'll feel even worse about yourself.

Soft, lithe fingers trail from the front of my neck to the back. The hairs there tingle in response. My heart could be sent into cardiac arrest at any moment.

My body melts into mush as he massages my neck and plants gentle kisses about my face. I am finally returned to my happy place and nothing is pulling me out of it.

"So you admit something is wrong then?" he asks my right ear. I snap back to reality and glare at the stone-cold beauty smirking over at me. I pull away and stiffen, rearing myself up to get out of the car. Another day, another manipulative boyfriend who doesn't know how to let things go.

I'm just about to inch out the car, my back straight and rigid, when he grabs my wrist. I slip my hand into his and attempt to pull him along. He complies and we exit the vehicle together.

Together. Could I have done it alone? No. I don't think I could find my way across the street without him.

The driver takes off as we go to face one of the hotter levels of my Hell. I squeeze my Everything's hand until I'm sure it'll pop off. But he squeezes back.

And so I plaster on a grin and continue to play the part of Happy. For him. Anything for him.

Nothing–not even my own self-loathing–will stand in the way of being with him. There's nothing else.

I'll do anything.

* * *

This was really boring, but I just wanted to set the mood and . . . setting. The drama unfolds next. Hazzah!

**-PC**


End file.
